Bryana knew the moment we pulled into the driveway—I saw it in her eyes. Love at first sight, so to speak. I couldn’t help but smile.
The house was a little out of our price range, but not so much as it was out of the question. Victorian isn’t my cup of tea, but I couldn’t ignore the rustic charm of the place. A small balcony overlooked the considerable front lawn now blanketed in fresh snow. It was serene.
“It’s perfect,” Bryana breathed in excitement, pulling her jacket tighter around her slender frame.
“Don’t you want to look inside first?” John, the realtor, chuckled. Or was it Josh? He waddled after us in a suit that was far too tight on his portly frame, buttons looking as though they’d burst at any moment. His oily forehead reflected an afternoon sun that offered no warmth to speak of.
“Nope.” Bryana threw her head back and laughed. I can’t remember the last time I’d heard her laugh. It hadn’t just been the baby I lost when Bryana miscarried. Some part of her died along with it.
We needed a change. A fresh start.
John was excitedly prattling on about the origins of the home, built in the 1800’s, and all of the professional remodeling the last few owners had done on the place. His voice faded into a drone as we walked the property. Bryana seemed to have thoroughly encouraged him with her excitement, and now he simply would not stop talking. They were both excitedly discussing some hypothetical garden that she’d plant as we walked to the back yard, shoes crunching on the frozen earth.
I couldn’t help but grin when we cleared the decorative shrubbery lining the perimeter of the home. I’ve never owned an in-ground pool before, and this one was big. I black rought iron fence encircled the perimeter. I pushed the gate open, spring loaded hinges snapping it shut behind me.
A black tarp covered the entirety of the pool, which is to be expected in the dead of winter. Powdery snow whipped across it tight surface playfully. I laid down on the ground and tried to peek under a flap of the thick plastic but the shadows were too dark, I couldn’t see anything. The gentle lapping of water and poignant chlorine brought a rush of childhood memories. I’ve always loved to swim.
There was something else, though… something deep below the surface. It beckoned me.
“I really do love this house.” I gasped as the voice shattered my focus, snapping my attention to Bryana. She was standing right over me, John looking a bit awkward as he glanced at me awkwardly. “I think it’s a little cold to swim.”
“Ah, sorry. I was just…” What was I doing, exactly? “Let’s check out the rest of the place.”
…
We moved in the following month.
Bryana had gone up to bed early that night. The Chinese takeout wasn’t agreeing with her stomach, although it could have been the stress. They say that moving is one of the most stressful things you can do. I wanted to get a little more unpacking done, so I bid her goodnight and set to work.
I worked under the dim orange glow of a porcelain lamp, its meager light casting long shadows across the wide expanse of the living room. Have you ever experienced a silence that is so profound it’s actually loud? Well, that was my new living room as I unpacked my DVD collection. I was used to living in the city—police sirens warbling, the comforting drone of steady traffic mingled with honking horns… I wasn’t used to quiet. Not this quiet. It was unnerving.
It was the kind of quiet that has you tip-toeing for no good reason. I crept out to the kitchen, my thick socks sliding across the pristine linoleum floor. One hand gripped the handle of the refrigerator, and I froze, a slight tingle running up my spine.
YOU CANT SWIM
I stared at the colorful alphabet magnet letters for some time, this inexplicable dread turning my stomach.
We’ve had these stupid letter magnets ever since we were dating. Back then we’d oftentimes have conflicting shifts at our jobs, so we’d leave immature and inappropriate messages for one another when one of us was at work. It was our fun little game.
I guessed this was some joke from Bryana about my apparent obsession with the pool last month. I didn’t really get it, and I felt a little creeped out by the whole thing. I didn’t see her unpacking the magnets, or even in the kitchen for that matter. I didn’t think it was funny. It was unsettling.
I wiped my hand across the letters, scattering them across the smooth face of the fridge.
Bedtime snack forgotten, I resumed the monotonous task of unpacking. Something tugged at me about those letters. Something was just… off. It’s really hard to explain.
I decided that I’d had enough for one night. As I said, moving is stressful business.
I was sound asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. I don’t remember dreaming at all. My eyes snapped open in the middle of the night, the urge to vomit overwhelming me, and I couldn’t breathe. I stumbled to our bathroom and barely got the lid of the toilet up before I hurled all over the place. My eyes burned and watered as I retched. My stomach convulsed as I dry heaved, acutely aware that my lungs felt *full. I couldn’t stop coughing.
I guess my pork fried rice wasn’t much better than Bry’s lo mein.
I continued to cough and sputter. I rested my head on my forearm as I caught my breath—and that’s when I smelled it. The chemical stench of chlorine. It was coming from the toilet. I looked down and saw only water in the toilet bowl—I’d vomited pool water. My throat and nose burned with pool cleaner as I coughed. The cold grip of fear seized my gut, my wild mind trying desperate to understand what was happening to me.
I slipped on a puddle on the floor, and stumbled over to the bed.
“We have to leave,” I coughed, “something’s wrong. Bry!”
I couldn’t see anything in the dark room. My hand wildly slid up and down the wall, searching for a light switch, my wet hands smearing pool water across the wall. My shaking hand finally hit its mark. I squinted against the sudden harsh light, temporarily blinded. My eyes slowly blurred into focus.
The bed was empty.
“Bryana!” I yelled, the words echoing across the still and silent home. No response. “Bry!” Pool chemicals burned my throat, the words hoarse and choked.
I bounded down the stairs, skipping most of them. I didn’t remember leaving the living room lights on, but they all burned brightly—every lamp in the room, even the overhead lights at the ceiling fan. They seemed too bright. Way too bright.
“Bryana!” I was screaming now, trying to remember where I’d left my cell phone so I could call 911.
I stopped at the kitchen, the hair on my neck standing on end. I wanted to scream, but all that came out of my mouth was this awkward sort of clicking noise.
BRY CANT SWIM
The colorful words were playfully arranged as though a child had placed them. The oranges, pinks, and greens horrified me in a way that I cannot begin to describe. As I stood there staring at the sinister message, hair standing on end, scarcely breathing—the rear motion light flicked on.
I turned my head slowly, willing my eyes to stay open. The bright flood light fully illuminated the swimming pool, black cover still tightly affixed. A light snow had begun to fall, blanketing the cover and patio. Under other circumstances it would have looked almost peaceful.
The tarp was slightly elevated at the center of the pool. There was something under it. Something that looked suspiciously like a slender, floating body. Something that looked like Bryana.
I ran outside, a frigid blast of winter air taking the breath from my lungs.
“Bry!” I screamed. No answer. My voice echoed back at me from the far distance.
I yanked and pulled at the cover in agony. My fingers ripped in agony as I struggled, one nail breaking off completely as blood trickled and pooled in the white snow. The tarp was secured so tightly I couldn’t budge it, no matter how hard I pulled and clawed at it.
I sat heavily in the snow, bringing my knees to my chest. Tears ran down my cheeks as I screamed at the cloudless night sky. I was paralyzed with fear as I sat in the icy snow. It was deathly still. So quiet that my ragged breathing was deafening in contrast.
That’s when I heard it. A soft scratching coming from the kitchen. A sinister sort of shifting, like if you’d rub plastic against metal. Like if you’d slide an alphabet letter magnet across a refrigerator. I heard a muffled slam as some door inside the house slammed shut, the bright white light cast from flood light extinguishing, leaving me in darkness.
Something in my mind broke along with that door slamming, and I ran barefoot through the snow. I didn’t stop running. I couldn’t stop running.
...
You see, I should have known. I did a fair bit of research before signing the intimidating stacks of realtor paperwork. There had been some kind of tragedy in the neighborhood—a young child had wandered into a pool and drowned. The homeowner woke one morning to find the little girl floating face-down, the water jetting from the pumps pushing her bloated corpse around in a morbid little circle.
I didn’t tell Bry. She was so smitten with the place, I couldn’t ruin this for her. I’ve never been superstitious, never had reason to be. Now I don’t know what to do. I’m willing to be the police are drawing up warrants for my arrest as I type this.
What am I supposed to tell the cops? My wife was sleepwalking and inexplicably managed to wriggle under a tarp that was lashed down so tightly I couldn’t get it off the ground more than a couple of inches? The ghost of a dead child lured her into the pool? I think I’m fucked.
I don’t know what to do.
Submitted June 27, 2016 at 07:56AM by block-throwaway http://ift.tt/28Y7xxS nosleep
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